


Wham Bam Shang-a-Lang and a Sha-La-La

by dragonnan



Category: Psych
Genre: Affable Bad Guys, But only a little, Drugged Shawn, Fluff and Humor, Forced Drug Use, Gen, Kidnapping, Lassiter is So Done, Sarcastic Shawn, Shawn Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: At this point Shawn had been pretty sure he'd stopped speaking out loud. Aloud. Verbally... Pretty su... well, mostly sure. No, pretty mostly for sure because Mr. Surly, Silent, and Stupid chose that moment to cram a rag that tasted like month old 7Up in his mouth.“Sit there, do your best to shut it, and maybe we'll be so good as to drop a tip with the cops once we're about three states away.”Well that was nice.





	Wham Bam Shang-a-Lang and a Sha-La-La

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DinerGuy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinerGuy/gifts).



He was, beyond any doubt, very tired of being tied to a chair. Duct tape? While it left a nasty residue that had taken no less than a full week to finally stop feeling on his skin, at least it was easy enough to escape. Rope? Child's play. Handcuffs? Pops had taught him how to Houdini out of those when he was six. Zip ties? Okay, admittedly, he had some trouble with those.

 

One guess which of those was cinched super tight around his wrists.

 

“Right or left?”

 

Shawn had expected any number of questions. Especially after that lead in where he'd been told “we have a number of questions for you.” Granted, he'd thought it would be along the lines of “who are you”, or “what do you think you're doing”, or “do you like pineapple on your pizza?” Of course, he'd known this wouldn't be the average 'caught red-handed breaking into the bad guy's secret hideout' scenario when, instead of just shooting at him they had, instead, bludgeoned him with the crowbar he'd used to delicately pick the lock (rude) and spirited him away to what appeared to be their double secret hideout where, it also appeared, they had hidden the stash of premium Folgers coffee in the nifty round cans that further hid neatly wrapped bundles of either cocaine or meth. Possibly marijuana. The thing was, he wasn't totally certain. He just knew it was something illegal that had a good chance of making a dude way high.

 

He realized he hadn't answered yet but, in his defense, he was pretty sure he had a concussion.

 

“What?”

 

Another hard smack that probably added “brain bleed” into the mix and Shawn cursed in a way that would have had Gus pinching the back of his hand and demanding a visit to the little boy's Christian Closet.

 

“FUCK! Okay, OKAY! Whatever; left! No, wait, right!” He chewed his lip. “Are we talking political views or which side of the bridge you want to toss my body because I may want to change my answer again...”

 

Thick meathooks clamped around his right arm – Mr. Surly, Silent, and Stupid aka token henchman aka dude with an obsession with seeing Shawn's head split open like a watermelon currently dug his unwashed fingertips into Shawn's vulnerable flesh and held firm as Mr. Twenty Questions approached from behind.

 

“To be honest, Mr. Spencer, it doesn't really matter. I'm just screwing with you.”

 

“Oh, well, that's... actually really not cool man. I thought we had a dialogue go-OW! What are...? Ow-OW!”

 

The cinching rubber tube around his arm was alarming and pinchy but the hot stab directly into the crevasse of his inner arm was exceptionally hurty – not to mention tremendously not good. Also alarming and pinchy if he were being totally honest. Especially when it became clear that there was a whiteish substance being pumped liberally into his veins.

 

“Oh...” He wasn't sure where he was going with that comment. Possibly a response both cutting and brilliant that would have led to his immediate release and their immediate surrender. As it was, somewhere between the hole in his arm and the movement of his tongue, something inside got reeeeally purple...

 

Probably still... no, definitely still bad. But, like, he just reeeeally didn't care.

 

It dawned on him, about the time that he'd been gazing up towards his captors with the biggest ass grin ever, that he'd said all of that out loud. Aloud?

 

“Aloud. And, yes, you're still talking. But no need to worry. Didn't give you enough to kill you even for a lightweight like yourself. You'll have a fun little trip, though.”

 

Well that cleared that up like a bowl of fish eggs...

 

Strangely enough his analogies usually didn't make so much sense.

 

Mr. Twenty Questions raised a thickish eyebrow. “That made sense?”

 

At this point Shawn had been pretty sure he'd stopped speaking out loud. Aloud. Verbally... Pretty su... well, mostly sure. No, pretty mostly for sure because Mr. Surly, Silent, and Stupid chose that moment to cram a rag that tasted like month old 7Up in his mouth.

 

“Sit there, do your best to shut it, and maybe we'll be so good as to drop a tip with the cops once we're about three states away.”

 

Well that was nice.

 

Shawn let his head tip back and spin while he started up at the ceiling that, funny enough, was also spinning. Weeeeeee!

 

~o~o~

 

 

Interesting note. It wasn't, quite as fun, three hours later.

 

The spinning had mostly stopped but now he was aware of a bunch of other things. Like how tight those zip ties were, for one. Super tight. Tight enough that narrow bruises had started to swell on his wrists. Of course, being a literal genius he'd spent some time screaming through his mouth rag and struggling so now he also had bleeding bruised wrists. Was it enough to die from? Okay, much as he'd played one at least fi...six times he wasn't, actually, a doctor. He couldn't confirm which veins were just ow and which ones were oops dead. And, for the record, Shooty Porn Kidnapper McSniper...Pants... also, was not remotely, a doctor. _“'Just a scratch' my pearly white ass”_... had been his mumbled grumble after waking out of surgery; _**SURGERY**_ , eighteen hours after he'd been shot! Oh, and that infection bonus because apparently dirt, leaves, and shredded bits of shirt held in place by an oily rag and duct tape made for piss poor wound management. Not cool, dude.

 

He acknowledged that staying on point was perceived, by some, as a weakness. Okay, first things first, he really needed to get rid of that mouth rag before he puked and died in the most unsettling way his father had ever detailed to his impressionable six year old self. Enviable tongue gymnastics went to work on the heavy cloth. Between that and several head jerks he was quickly able to shake the saturated rag from between his teeth. Actually it was embarrassingly easy.

 

_Dude, he could have done that, like, hours..._

 

Whatever.

 

“You couldn't have left a pair of scissors in here just slightly out of reach!? You know, so I could spend an hour struggling but eventually reach them with my fingertips and manage to make my grand escape!??” He licked his lips and noted that he needed to reapply his cherry vanilla chapstick. “Here's the thing, I really need to pee!!”

 

In spite of his voice cracking bellows the only thing that answered was the slight echoing percussion of his own outrage.

 

The light thrum of panic at the back of his throat didn't spell good news for the state of his wrists because he was about three hummed bars of the Baywatch theme away from chewing through his arms.

 

To stave off self-mutilation he switched up his agitation management tactics to jogging his heel against the floor. Went about as well as could be expected given the zip ties also encircling his ankles but beggars and choosers and something something wise Gus likely pontificated during a smoothie run.

 

He briefly considered rocking the chair just to bleed off some of his pulsing need for movement. Of course, then he'd probably end up on the floor. Not that it would be his first time in that position or even his second. Here's the thing – both of those other times there was also a handy phone within handy reach. He reconsidered and then reconsidered his reconsidering. It gave him something to do with his brain for all of thirty seconds.

 

There was a long patch of time where he found himself yelling again.

 

His wrists hurt. His hands... hurt, but were also sorta tingly and numb.

 

His ass was totally numb and honestly there were few things worse than having a tingly ass when circulation was finally restored.

 

He chewed his lip and for the second time found himself missing that protective layer of chapstick. Tasting blood was both revolting and a firm reminder that his canines were sharper than any respectable human should have to suffer. This, too, he blamed on his father – what with his genetics clearly containing werewolf ancestry. Even Gus agreed on that one. Ancestry.com could suck it.

 

He yelled.

 

He refused to acknowledge the following 25 or so minutes. At the end of it he was on the floor, gasping, sweating, and bleeding from his wrists in a completely non-theoretical manner. In other words, his hands were warm and sticky and it wasn't from squeezing a bear shaped bottle of honey. He absolutely refused to believe that the wet on his face was anything other than sweat.

 

He was pretty sure all of his insomnia laden night had caught up to him by this point because his next moment of awareness was waking up with a fuzzy metallic grossness coating his tongue and a slippery confusion thinking he'd fallen out of bed and somehow tangled up with the furniture.

 

Memory strolled back about the same time his stomach politely asked when dinner would be ready. “Polite” in the way Greta Norris had politely kicked him in the balls when he asked Tracy Mills to go with him to Homecoming.

 

Well, memory lane was a wide stream of suck. Maybe his next memory could be about his parent's divorce or that time he got shot. Oh, wait, he'd already perused that... yesterday?

 

Pee check. Yes... he still had to. Which meant, at least, he hadn't soaked his underwear.

 

This literally had to be the longest he'd ever held it. Not that he had much competition given Gus's child-like bladder.

 

He considered yelling again. And then he did for real when a centipede the size of a dachshund scurried towards his face.

 

“HELP!! HELLP!! HOLY GOD HEEEELP!!”

 

“Jesus, Shawn!”

 

He snapped his face away from leggy doom at the dubiously angelic sound of his father's voice. “Oh my God, that worked!” He squirmed as roughly a platoon of bodies began to crowd his abandoned corner of cliché warehouse.

 

“I can't believe you found me! Especially if Lassie was helping!”

 

Said detective wandered into view at that point; gun held loose at his side. “Oh, haha. How about we just leave you here instead, Spencer?”

 

“Shawn!” Gus darted inside just as Henry began sawing through the way too tight zip ties.

 

“Gus! Oh, thank God!” He ignored Lassie's snide aside about his newfound religious side in favor of bestowing a long longed for greeting to his long absent best friend. “Dude, did you bring tacos? I'm starved!” He hissed as first one, then the other wrist was cut free – trying to stand before his ankles were released and enjoying the face plant for his trouble.

 

“Kid, hold still before you hurt more than your pride.”

 

Shawn glared as far behind himself as he was able. “Uh, have you seen my wrists??”

 

One leg dropped free. “Have you?”

 

Snorting, Shawn turned towards his mangled limbs. “Pretty sure I lost about fourteen pints; you may want to call an ambulance...” finally taking in said mangling to see puffy redness, chafed flash, and two small areas rubbed raw and beaded with pinprick sized blood droplets. “Well, it felt worse...”

 

“Also, the human body only has twelve pints of blood.”

 

Shawn sneered as his other leg was released. “Maybe your body.” Shawn made a weaving Bambi wobble back to his feet and hoped his face didn't turn as green as it felt.

 

Gus wrinkled his smooth dome. “Dude, either you're hulking out or you're about to do something I'd really rather not have to witness.”

 

Shawn blinked back the twisting gut and threw in some heavy swallows for added insurance. Lassiter rolled his eyes as he led his group back towards the door. “Lightweight.”

 

Shaking off both Gus and his Pops, Shawn stumbled after the detective. “Hey, where's Jules? I thought, for sure, she'd be here to kiss my boo-boos!”

 

Leaving CSU to catalog the scene, Lassiter continued on towards his sedan. “O'Hara is booking your merry gang of drug dealers. Way to get kidnapped, by the way.”

 

Shawn mouthed the words back at the man's shoulders before leaning into Gus. “Okay, tell me straight. How many days has it been? I can take it, buddy; just be honest.”

 

Pops clapped a hand on his back with enough force to dislodge his trachea. “Shawn, it's only been four hours.”

 

Gus shrugged at Shawn's stare. “Are you kidding me right now?”

 

“Spencer, get in the car. Since O'Hara won the coin toss I'm the one stuck taking your statement so hop to it.”

 

“Hold on; I need a bush.” Gus curled his lip as Shawn hustled towards the conveniently tall shrubbery to handle a rather urgent call of nature. Task finished, he was able to saunter with a tad more swagger back to the rumbling Crown Vic with a classic action pose Lassie behind the wheel. Without a word, Lassiter held a wet wipe out the window. “You touch my upholstery with pee hands and you walk home.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Finally clean enough to enter, he slid across the seat with Gus at his heels. Meanwhile Pops gave a little wave before heading to his truck. Shawn tipped his head to watch him go. “Let me guess. He's late to a poker game.”

 

Gus nodded. “Yup. Complained about it most of the way here, too.”

 

“You ladies belted in? I'd like to get back to the station before sunset.” Simultaneously, Shawn and Gus pulled their belts across and snapped them home.

 

“Dude, any chance for a dinner stop?”

 

Wordlessly, Lassiter pulled out of the dirt lot and aimed the car towards the main road.

 

“Seriously, man, I've had, like, two sticks of gum since yesterday.”

 

“Not a chance. You can suck it up until we reach the station and eat a stale donut from the break room like everyone else.”

 

Gus leaned over to whisper hot breath against Shawn's ear. “Didn't you have eight pancakes this morning with extra blueberry syrup?”

 

“Shh!”

 

Shawn tapped his fingertips on the back of Lassiter's seat. Tapped. Tapped. Tapped...

 

Tapped.

 

“Knock it off or I swear to God I'm going to break your fingers off at the elbow.”

 

“Okay, fine. But I demand churro dogs on the way back.”

 

Gus perked up. “Uh, I second that.”

 

Dropping his shades over his eyes, Lassiter scowled through the windshield. After a beat he sighed, dipping his head. “Fine.”

 

At his back, Shawn and Gus enthusiastically bumped fists.

 

 

 


End file.
